The Don now went on improving steadily, and it was not very long before
his jolly doctor, entering the room in his brisk, cheery way, and
bringing along with him much of the freshness of the crisp October
morning, told his patient that he might dress and sit by the window, and
that if he felt able to do so, he might, the next day, go down-stairs.
At this Mrs. Carter, who had followed the doctor, expressed great
satisfaction; when the Don said something about having given enough
trouble already, and asked whether he would not be strong enough,
probably, to go down to his own room.
“How far is it?” asked the doctor. “Where is your room?”
“At the corner of —th and Main; ever so far,” said Mrs. Carter; “but
far or near, Mr. Smith, you will not go there yet. It is simply out of
the question.” To which the Don smiled his acknowledgments.
I must mention, here, that after the conversation recorded in the last
chapter, on Mrs. Carter’s going up to inquire how the Don had enjoyed
his breakfast, he had seemed a little nervous. It was obvious—so, at
least, she thought—that he feared that she was going to propose to
write to his friends. At last it seemed to occur to him, as a kind of
compromise, that he would give a vague sort of account of himself, but
in such a way that it would be understood that he had nothing more to
report. Actuated, apparently, by this motive, and spurred on by a
nervous dread of a point-blank question from Mrs. Carter, he seized
every pretext for saying something about himself, but always in a
distant and shadowy kind of way. For example, allusion having been made
to the news from Europe, he hastened to say that he had spent much of
his life there; and this bringing up, very naturally, the delights of
travelling, “Yes,” said he, “it is very pleasant at first, but after a
while one begins to feel, as he wanders from capital to capital, that he
is on a sort of perpetual picnic,—a mere butterfly,—and a weary sense
of the aimlessness, the utter worthlessness, of his life begins to creep
over him. After all, every human heart feels, sooner or later, the need
of a home; for a home means interests, means duties, means affections;
and what is life without all these?”
It was a study, watching his face when he spoke in this way. Beginning
with a low voice and with a studied repose of manner, the mere utterance
of his thoughts would soon hurry him past self-control, the glow of his
countenance and the vibrating intensity of his voice breaking through
the crust of a self-imposed calm, when, as though conscious that he had
betrayed too much emotion, he would abruptly cease speaking, and remain
silent till he felt that he had regained composure.
“I cannot thank you sufficiently, Mr. Frobisher,” said Mrs. Carter one
day, “for warning me not to ask him about his home and friends.”
“What _would_ he have said, mother?” said Alice. “I wish you had,
_almost_.”
“And then, perhaps, we might have known something,” said Mary. “I
declare I am positively consumed with curiosity.”
“Don’t speak of it,” said Alice. “Now just look at that provoking Lucy.
Here are you and I, Mary, wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement
over this enigma, and there sits Lucy, as composed and self-contained
as—as—Neptune. You remember his _placidum caput_, girls,—in the
Virgil class, you know.”
“My head may be _placidum_, but it is more than my heart is. It fairly
aches with longing to know who he is. Do you know, I feel, somehow, as
though he was to be more to me than to either of you girls.”
“What!” said Alice. “Have not I long since claimed him?”
It was on one of the occasions above alluded to that the Don mentioned
where his room was (hence Mrs. Carter’s knowledge of its location),
managing to throw out, in a vague way, that as a wanderer about the
earth he had chanced to find himself in Richmond, something in his
manner rendering it impossible that any one should ask whence he came or
whither he was going. “Now, doctor,” Mrs. Carter had added on this
occasion, “I am sure that you will say that it would be very unwise in
Mr. Smith to forsake his nurse and his present quarters just at present.
True, Mr. Whacker takes Mr. Frobisher off to-night down to his rooms,
but I am left. Besides, down there on Main Street, weak as you are, and
all alone as you would be, there is no telling what might happen.” And
she looked to the doctor for support.
“Of course,” said he, with a shake of his head that brought the waving
hair down over his forehead,—“of course Mr. Smith will remain here for
the present.”
“Well, that is settled?” asked Mrs. Carter.
“One must obey orders, especially when they are agreeable.”